Let me count the ways
by kim-p86
Summary: A Meredith POV 5-part ficlet.
1. Chapter 1

**I had an idea while reading my trashy magazine on the train home. And I tried to purge the idea out of my mind but it grew instead. And then I thought of a poem that I had to write an essay about back when I was 16... and.... I had to write this.  
I haven't ever written a POV fic, I prefer to write in 3rd person because you can include many people's thoughts. But this one spoke to me in Mer's POV only...I don't know if this will work, but I think it's a cool and original idea, so I'm willing to try, and it's not as if anyone cares anyway...**

:) Hope you all enjoy my experiment!

I'm grateful I'm going back to work tomorrow. I was going stir-crazy, especially for the last few days where I've felt fine, but have still been cooped up inside this house.

I mean, I was so bored I tried reading 'Anna Karenina' for god's sake. I reached page ten, before I either fell asleep or wanted to poke my eyes out with a pencil. People say it's one of those classics you have to read, and I've tried, but for the love of god, it was a boring book. I remember having to read it for my core literature class in my freshman year at Dartmouth, and I just read the cliff notes and made up the paper the night before the deadline. I still got an A though. Go me!

The other week, I realised exactly how much junk I have in this house. Not only is it all of my junk, but my mom's too. I guess I inherited my 'pack-rat' hoarding trait from her. I cleared out my nightstand drawer the other day, and found my diary from last year. I flicked through it, reliving the whole of last year in one hundred and four pages of my 'week view' diary. It's odd to think about how much my life changed last year. When you're going through it, you don't think about it. But it started with me and Derek doing that whole 'sex and mockery' thing and ended with us actually being together and happy. The bit in between all that was the hard part, that trial part where I was seeing Dr. Wyatt every week. I can pinpoint the day I decided to give up on the 'psych crap'-there's that scrawled out appointment, crossed out several times in an angry red coloured pen, I pressed so hard you could see the mark through several pages. I'm glad I went to see her though. I needed someone to kick my ass into the realm of self-awareness, which I guess is something I didn't possess before. It's ironic, because if I didn't have self-awareness now I'd never realise that I didn't have it before I did and… I think I understand what I'm saying. So anyway, thank god for Dr. Wyatt for making me face tough questions, because if I didn't, I don't think I'd have had it in myself to just live and let live with Derek.

Sometimes, I think like the old me, the person I thought my mom had taught me to be and I think 'why the hell did you give Derek another chance when he was such an asshole? You let him off the hook, and he was to blame for it all too- well, at least partly.' But then I realise- my Mom did that with the chief and where did that leave her? Sad and lonely and pining for him all his life. People say that there's this horrific moment in your life where you see yourself turning into your mother, and that happened to me at that time. I saw myself being too stubborn, waiting for Derek to admit his role in the breakdown, and sometimes, you have to take the hit, swallow your pride and at least admit your part in it all, without expecting the same back. Because would it have been worth not having Derek in my life just as on a matter of principle? Principles don't kiss you in the morning or hug you or tell you they love you.

Speaking of love, yesterday I found something cute in one of Izzie's 'chemo cosmos' – you know, the magazines she read to try and distract herself from the chemo dripping into her vein. I read this little blurb thing about the different ways men say 'I love you' and I was thinking back to Derek, and I guess they're true- you know, the ones they say when they're trying to get out of something, or when they want sex, or when you do something silly. I thought it was just a Derek thing, but it seems it's a man thing. I feel stupid thinking it was unique to Derek, until I think about how he's the first, real, grown-up relationship I've had. People go through several relationships, making mistakes with different men until they find that one they commit to. I did it differently, sleeping with a LOT of men, not getting close to anyone before I met Derek I have to trust him to know what other relationships ought to be like- I have no previous experience of my own. Then I guess somewhere along the line I gave him my heart and he took it, and ground it up into hamburger and gave it back to me. All my breaking-up and making-up has been with him. Sometimes I think I was kinder on him because I blamed it all on my inexperience, putting it down to the thought 'Meredith, you know shit about real lasting relationships-you had a crappy childhood and have serious attachment issues, and OF COURSE you are the fucked up one' when really Derek was a dick too. I mean, he did decide to do whatever he did with Rose while I got whole and healed.

He's not perfect.

But neither am I.

Maybe we're equally imperfect.

At the end of the day, when you're sighing with relief as you slip into the sheets, I always think 'are you happy?' And with Derek, most of the time, the answer is yes. That's impressive, considering I am a 'glass half-empty' person- well, the glass isn't just half empty, I'm afraid it will never be full. But with Derek, it doesn't really matter, because whatever is in that glass is the good stuff anyway. It's better for the glass to have a shot of really good tequila than for it to be full of nasty, bitter orange juice…maybe there's a better analogy than that, but it makes sense to me.

Most of the time I was wishing I was back at work, which sounds crazy considering when I'm at work, I wish I had time to wash my underwear, because I don't have any clean pairs left, or that Derek and I could watch that movie together, or that I could think about clearing some stuff out of the downstairs closet because there is so much crap in there, I am scared to open the door of it. With all this free time on my hands, I have had a lot of time to think. Well, think, sleep, watch trashy stuff on lifetime, and fail at reading 'Anna Karenina'. But in the time I was thinking, I thought about how true that little silly article about the way men love women was- and all the silly little ways I love Derek back in return. I wonder if other women love their boyfriends or husbands that way, or whether it's unique to Derek. I would ask Izzie, but she's gone MIA, Cristina would sooner give someone a rectal examination than discuss it, and Lexie had too much of a perfect childhood to ask her- besides, she's with Mark, and he's a law unto himself.

**How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of being and ideal grace.  
I love thee to the level of every day's  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.  
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.  
I love thee with the passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death.**

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm not a tidy person. I know there are plates on the nightstand that shouldn't be there, and the trashcan in the bathroom is overflowing, and for days, Derek and I have been in this stalemate situation where neither of us take it downstairs, hoping the other one will take it down. I put my used Kleenexes in there, and the Q-tips I use to put that cream on my scar, but he puts his floss in there, and the empty can of hair mousse. I'm not emptying it.

I know I'm being irrational, but I'm also pre-menstrual, so I have a valid excuse to be angry today. And Derek better suck it up.

Every time I go in there, I see more stuff in that trashcan. And it annoys me. I can't even bear to pee there because my eyes are drawn to it. He goes downstairs, he passes the wheelie trashcan on his way out every morning. How hard is it to take the freaking bag out of the trashcan and throw it in the garbage? This is why men and women need to have separate bathrooms. This is why I should think about hiring a maid. This is why some people think it's better if they just have sex with each other but don't live together. Is this what marriage is? Bathroom chess where we both don't move because emptying the trash is like a silent checkmate.

Bailey's put me on half schedule, which means I have half days off. Like I'm being mommy-tracked without the baby. Sometimes, it feels like a lot of my residency has been me having an easy time. First was the bomb thing, which, I was more than happy to have time off so I didn't have to think about how close Derek and I were to kissing each other senseless when he told me that he remembered our last kiss. Then I had appendicitis, so that was one week of half time, and then there was the time I drowned, and 'I was back from the dead' *in a scary voice*. Now, I'm being eased into it all because I have three-quarters of a liver. To be honest, the amount I drank in college, I'm surprised I was eligible to donate my liver…

So now I'm getting overly mad about the nasty trashcan. And when that happens I eat. But when I go down to the kitchen, there is nothing left there except Izzie's baking stuff, which is no good to anyone. That's not food! I look in the fridge, and there's a tomato in the salad drawer, but it looks like it's seen better days. It's leaking juice and seems squishy. I can't help but wrinkle my nose at that. And that's another thing Derek doesn't do- grocery shopping.

I don't do it either, but I'm happy with leftover grilled cheese and cold pizza and cereal straight out of the box. He's the health nut. What are we in, Jane Austen times? This is the twenty first century! Women go out to work, so men can buy food. I'm sure there should be some hunter-gatherer caveman reflex behaviour that makes Derek think 'Me hungry. No food. Find food.' But it seems like that never developed in Derek. Maybe growing up with four sisters and a real loving mom he never had to get his own food- everything must have been wholesome and homemade with love. I don't think my mom ever thought to feed herself, let alone feed me.

Out of courtesy, I waited for him. I had the assortment of menus laid out on the counter, so we could discuss what to have like a civilised couple. At least, that's what I think people would do. Actually, most people would have groceries and be able to cook things. But even if I got groceries, I wouldn't be able to do anything with them- I could make sandwiches, perhaps. By the time I have thought about what we could have from the take out menus from each cuisine, it's already quite late. Not that my stomach is the most accurate timer in the world, but it is making those nasty aching rumbling noises. But I will resist temptation and I'll wait for him. Because at the end of the day, I'm trying to be the best wife I can be, and while I cant give him a hot meal waiting for him when he comes home, I can at least let him have a choice of what take-out we are having tonight. As long as it's pizza.

Well, I waited fifteen minutes before I tried calling him several times, only to get his crappy voicemail. I was so hungry, I considered eating the tomato to tide me over until he came home. But after actually taking it out of the fridge, the only good place for it was the trash—which, I am still adamant I am not going to remove from the bathroom. I caved and ordered the pizza. And fuck him, with every topping he wouldn't like- that means extra cheese and no vegetables and stuffed crust. It's kind of like cutting my nose to spite my face because after one and a half slices, it's sitting in my stomach uncomfortably. My duodenum's gonna have a tough time digesting all that fat.

I wonder if he's called into a surgery, although it's not his turn to be the attending on call. He has that god complex that makes him so sexy- that arrogance that makes him think every other attending is shit compared to him. He's a good teacher though, he lets you perform procedures if they're pretty routine, and lets you do even more challenging things under his guidance. And it's not just because I'm sleeping with him. He's good with the fellow too. And I hope he's not sleeping with him.

He's an asshole. I just got a text from him saying he's at Joe's with Mark. I'm not so much pissed off that he's at Joe's, I'm jealous. I'm jealous because I'm not allowed to drink for another three weeks (I don't count that tiny sip of champagne I drank after Derek's miracle tumour surgery.) I wait for him, and I know that just by the delay of his shoes against the tiles of the porch and him managing to get the key in the door, that he's had maybe one scotch too many. His feet drag against the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"Hi Mer. Did you get my text?" Oh, he thinks he's so smart, mentioning that he tried to get in touch with me, trying to get himself off the hook. But his syllables are slightly more drawn out than usual, and I can tell he's a little drunk. I'm going to make him pay.

I turn round, and I must be giving him a hard-ass look, because his eyes widen and he steps back to support himself on the countertop. "Sure I got it. At ten o'clock. Thanks for the afterthought." I tell him sarcastically.

This is still about the trash, by the way, even though I can't bring myself to tell him that.

"I know. It was shitty of me. I'm sorry." He says, puppy-dog eyed. I hate that I love them, and that they work, the way they soften in an instant. But I know they're fake this time. My eyes narrow, calling him out on his crap. He comes towards me, his hands resting on my hips. "You know, I love you, right?" Cue more puppy-dog eyes.

There's a sincerity in his voice that gets me every time. There's a vulnerable little crack in his intonation. I know it's an aural aspirin, he's using it as a balm to try and cool my frustration. If only he knew that it was about the garbage in the bathroom. Damn him, he's making me feel sorry for him because I'm not truly telling him why I'm mad at him. I wrench myself away from him before I lose all self control.

"There's pizza." I tell him, in what I hope is a cool, stand-offish voice. I mean, it's not taking his apology too easily and it's not doing the whole silent treatment thing. I hate that. It's so frustrating when you don't speak to each other about the everyday things. That's weird of me to think that, considering I am a big avoider, I know. But it's like when I did that terrible thing with George, and he refused to talk to me. That was awful, because you miss them. It's better to talk to them about the inane, silly little unimportant things and not speak about the big issues that they problem is really about, because at least you can try to fool yourself that you're communicating, even though it's totally the wrong type of communication, because it's freaking useless. It doesn't solve any of the 'elephant in the room' issues you have. But it's all about thinking you feel better.

Now he's trying to explain it to me. "You know, after work, Mark dragged me to Joe's, and before I knew it, I had a glass of scotch in my hand, then one became two, and by the time I remembered I didn't tell you where I'm going, it was late."

I don't think it matters anymore. Not really. It was a fucking drink. Who cares? "I'm not angry you had a drink, Derek. I'm angry you had a _drink._"

It's still really about the trash.

Obviously it confused his alcohol-slowed brain, because his brow knits together in confusion. "What?"

"I'm growing a liver. And you get to go and unwind with a drink. I get to unwind by pairing socks. And that's shitty. I don't get to drink, not yet anyway."

"So… I shouldn't drink if you can't drink?" He asks carefully, trying not to sound incredulous or argumentative.

"Yes." I say simply. I know it's pathetic. Really dumb.

He shrugs his shoulders and takes a piece of pizza out of the box. "Ok."

My eyebrow raises in surprise. "Ok?" I ask.

Sometimes, I don't get this man. He should be mad I asked him not to drink for another two weeks, that I bought a pizza he knows I knew he hates, that there's not even a mouldy tomato left in our fridge. But he's there, heating up the pizza in the microwave, and he actually looks content. Maybe it's the alcohol…

He smiles at me. It's an 'I'm being supportive' smile. It's a smile that conveys the 'I love you' a thousand times better than the empty 'I love you' he said minutes before to try and avoid an argument. Sometimes I am shocked how much easier it would be for Derek if he knew it was the little things that make me happy. Like buying milk or replacing the trash bag in the bathroom. He gets a can of soda from the laundry room and takes his plate and drink into the living room. I sit beside him, tucked up into his side as he flips channels.

"I really am sorry, you know." He says quietly, over the commercial for some crap. I frown, wondering why he's being so apologetic about it, until I realise that perhaps I should be more upset about this than I am, or at least I should be making more of a fuss about it. I'm not so clingy that I mind him going out for a drink with his friends- if I could drink, I'd go out with Cristina too, we don't have to be with each other all the time. We already work together, sometimes I like just being the me I am without him. But I can use this as leverage.

"You can make it up to me by doing some grocery shopping tomorrow…and taking the trash out of our bathroom." I tag the end bit on as casually as I can, but emphasising it enough so that he knows I mean it.

The next day, and it's my first full day back at work, and as I step through my door, it feels like I've just ran a marathon. Every muscle in my back aches, and my head pounds. I just want to eat something, have a bath and sleep. Maybe just sleep. But the smell of cooking hits my nose, and instead of smelling burning, it actually promises to be good.

I walk into the kitchen to see Derek in the apron I got Izzie for Christmas last year, one of those joke aprons, with the novelty cartoon thing of a busty woman in a bikini. I hope she appreciated the irony, considering she is a former 'Bethany Whisper' model. I think she got it. He's chopping peppers. I can't help it, but it's a massive turn on.

He smiles at me as he sees me in the doorway. "Hey" he greets me.

There's definitely something about him cooking that is hot. It makes me love him all over again, as if I'm feeling it all for the first time. Sometimes, when you live together and share your life together, you can easily get bogged down in the mundane-ness of it all- who empties the garbage, who does the grocery shopping. But then there are these most silly, simple little moments when you remember why you fell in love with him in the first place, reliving it all again, the realisation of your love for him making your heart thump in your chest almost painfully. In that moment, you don't care he doesn't even notice no food in the fridge.

I walk up to him, standing on tip-toes to peer around him at the things cooking on the stove. "Mmm. Smells good." I say.

I'm not sure I'm just talking about the food.

Maybe it's the quiet moments like this that are truly perfect, where nothing happens. This isn't meant to be one of those days in our lives that we will remember in years to come, but at this very moment in time, I'm just happy.

We have a meal. We share some ice-cream out of a carton. He notices me yawn and then tells me to have a shower and then go to bed, because he's going to let me do a laminectomy virtually unaided tomorrow. I feel myself being drawn into sleep as I enter the bathroom and just throw my clothes into the hamper as I climb into the shower. I don't like to freak Derek out with showers or baths anymore. I know he relives the horrors of me drowning if I fall asleep in the shower or bath. I suppose he's the one who pulled a cold, blue, dead me out of the water, so I'll indulge his irrational quirk. As per my nightly routine, I apply that healing cream to my scar. I throw the Q-tip into the trash, and I hear it hit the bottom of the trashcan. I look down, seeing it's been emptied, and a fresh bag has been put in its place.

I go to bed grinning like a fool.

Derek joins me a few minutes later, unbuttoning his shirt and taking off his pants, finding his pajama bottoms in the dark somewhere on the floor. He arranges the comforter just the way he likes it, and I scoot closer to him, whispering sleepily in his ear. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He whispers back, although he sounds confused.

I know he doesn't know why I said it. But it doesn't matter. Maybe it's not just for one thing.

_**[b][i]Won't you bury me in your quiet love?  
Oh bury me in your quiet love  
Oh bury me in your quiet love  
And we will blow away**_

_**Ingrid Michaelson- Snowfall.[/b][/i]**_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I just wanted to write a little note to say that I hope people are enjoying this. I encourage readers to leave even a little comment, because... while the quality of the comments is excellent, the quantity is less so. I'm not one of those writers to bribe people to comment, saying if I don't get 10 comments I won't add another chapter. I get it. People are busy. I hadn't enabled anonymous commenting, and have now, so I hope that encourages some of the more shy readers to leave me a little message . :)**

Even though my mom died over two years ago, I still get mail addressed to 'Dr. Ellis Grey.' Most of the time, I just flick through the envelopes and throw them in the recycling- after all, I thought all of the important people know she's dead now. We get those 'CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE WON $1 MILLION!!' or the book club subscriptions, or those invitations to go on a cruise for old people. Derek was going through the mail the other day at breakfast, and he handed me one that looked pretty official.

It was some crap to do with her life insurance policy, and they wanted validation about her Alzheimer's disease. I know my mom and I didn't have the greatest relationship ever, but I'd like to think that when I had to step up and be her daughter, I did my duty. I moved back to Seattle, I became her power of attorney, I acted in her best interests instead of my own. I thought once she died, that burden would be lifted off my shoulders, that I'd finally be free of that sinking feeling that my mother would have hated what she had become- dependent on others losing the one thing she held onto- her job, her will, her brilliant mind. Instead, I had to see my mother, the woman I didn't get on with but secretly admired wither away into someone who couldn't even make their own decisions. And now, she couldn't even be dead independently. I had to trawl through her medical records and prove that she had this disease that took away everything that made her who she was.

I flip on the light to the basement, and make my way down the old,creaking wooden stairs. I know there are thirteen steps, and that the fifth one down is the creakiest, and it feels like your foot will fall through it, but it never does. It's been like that in over thirty years. I can hardly believe I've lived in this house for most of my life. Before my mom got her diagnosis, I thought I'd live out on the east coast forever- and try and escape my mother's shadow, be my own person, find myself. But now, I like being in Seattle, it feels like home.

I don't know what's happened with Derek and the plans to build a house on his land. Our house on the cliff. We haven't talked about it for a while, actually. I guess we were just finding our feet, then Izzie got cancer, George died, things happened, and we found comfort in what we already have. It's one of the only things that is stable in my life- that I have Derek, and this house. Derek was right- I like being in my own house, having my things around. I suppose he's gotten comfortable too. If I didn't know any better, I'd suspect he brought those blueprints out of nowhere just to force me to make a commitment to him, to tell him that I definitively wanted a future with him. He's such a girl sometimes. At that point, I was scared though. Why can't things just stay the same for a little while? There are so many things that happen in life that we can't control, I don't think I'm a freak for wanting things I can control to stay the same. I guess that know we have signed our lives away to each other on a post-it, Derek's cooled off a little bit.

Sometimes, I allow myself to imagine what it would have been like if the chief did leave his wife and play happy families with my mom and me. Would my mom have been a different person? Would I have been a different person? I mean, I like my life now, don't get me wrong, but it's felt like a tortuous journey to get here…a lot of bottles of Jose, and a lot of meaningless men. If I had felt like I was wanted and loved and belonged when I was a kid, like I do now, maybe I'd have known it was ok to have that with Derek sooner. Shit happens though, everyone has crappy lives. Everyone has that darkness in their past that makes them appreciate the good stuff.

After searching, I finally find my mom's file that says 'insurance documents' on it. I smile, seeing her writing for the first time in a long time. It has that doctor's scrawl to it, that habit we all acquire because we just can't seem to write fast enough, so some letters are on top of one another, and some are spaced far apart. Suddenly, seeing that file induces a wave of regret to wash over me- I'd spent so long hating and resenting my mother that I didn't ever stop to think that maybe she was lonely and looking for something too. Who was there for her when she was told she had Alzheimer's disease? She had early onset Alzheimer's, and I know there's a genetic component to it, so knowing my luck, I might get it too. But if I did have it, I'd want Derek to hold my hand as the neurologist confirmed the diagnosis, to console me and hold me when I cry. But my mom did that all alone. She had no one, and I feel guilty to think while she was dealing with it alone, I was balancing the fine line of working hard in med school during the week and indulging in the heady mix of tequila and boys at the weekend.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of someone walking around upstairs. Even though the door to the basement is open, Derek's voice sounds muffled as he calls my name. I shout back to him, and he carefully comes down the stairs, slightly apprehensive at the creaky sounds they are making. I smile as he nearly stops after the fifth step, wary of falling through it. I know better.

"What are you doing down here?" He asks me, watching me as I flick through my Mom's papers. His hands are tucked into his jeans pockets as he leans against the wall.

"Keeping some paper-pusher in a job." I reply wryly, finding the document I want and standing up from my crouching position. "Just mom's insurance stuff." I explain waving the paper at him.

"I never fully appreciated how big this basement is…" He says, looking around. I can see him trying to estimate the square footage, and if I didn't know any better, he's thinking about changing this place into something other than 'i-don't-know-where-to-put-this-so-I'll-put-it-in-the-basement.'

I shrug, and turn towards the stairs. If he's thinking about converting it into another functional room, perhaps I was right- he has no intention to move. I understand it- if it ain't broke, don't fix it. We are happy here. It's close to the hospital, to downtown, it's a good house. I think my dream house is right here. Balconies and hot tubs in the backyard and wrap around porches are something of a fantasy, and perhaps they should stay that way-things are rarely as good in reality as they are in your head. I can't even keep this place tidy, let alone a house three times bigger. We are surgeons, even when Derek is a non-resident attending on-call, he often gets called out to do some complicated surgery. It would be horrible for him if we lived an hour away. Really, we don't need anything more. It's already got three other bedrooms including the attic, and I have no intention of having more than two children.

I'm two steps up, and I hear Derek laugh softly. "Oh, 'Meredith's photos', I wonder what I'll find here…'" He says excitedly, and I virtually jump down the three steps and launch myself towards him to stop him from opening the box.

"You don't really want to bore yourself. Normal boring photos everyone has…" I say, cringing when I notice him look at me, noticing the embarrassment on my face.

"Oh, these MUST be good. What are you hiding?" He asks. I try pulling on his arm, but it's no use- he's got the box down from the shelf and he's opening it up.

Goddammit, he'll see everything.

It's not that I'm uncomfortable with who I was, I think that I wouldn't be who I am today if I didn't go through what I did, I'm just scared people would not get it, and judge me. I know it's only Derek, and that he tells me he loves me everyday, even when he doesn't say it. I told him that story about 'Death and Die' and he didn't run for the hills. But I'm uncomfortable with people being uncomfortable, and I think this defensive streak in me is more a force of habit. 'Oh, Ellis Grey may be great, but her daughter is trouble.' I know my mom saw me as her one failure- her one black spot on her glittering reputation. I was the obvious chink in her armour. She said as much one night- or should I say morning- when I came home after a party- drunk and with a guy that my mom would not approve of. I was a reminder of all her failures- her failure to be a wife, a mother, a carer, a lover. It was not only my behaviour, it's what I symbolised. And I have accepted it now, I have made peace with it. But at sixteen, it hurt. I don't regret anything. Truly. If the textbooks are to be believed, this makes me a psychopath. If the glossy magazines are to be believed, this makes me an independent modern woman.

I want to avoid. I bite my lip. It would be SO easy to distract him with sex, turn him on, rev him up, and watch him go. My fingers could lock themselves into the curls, and I could kiss him just behind his ear and put my hands where it takes his breath away, and he'd never know I was a messed up kid. A masochistic part of me wants him to know. Maybe I need him to. I need him to accept me even at my worst, so that I know the best is real. And so I just kneel beside him, close, but not touching-just waiting and watching for his reaction.

There's the usual toothy milk teeth grinning photos in elementary school, when I was brand new and unspoiled. I think it's my first passport photo, a few months before my dad left us. I look at the photo, and get the vague taste of strawberry ice cream on my tongue- the kind Thatcher used to take me to the mall for, two scoops, rainbow-coloured sprinkles.

He pulls out a scrapbook my friends made me in high school, and I instinctively rock back onto my heels, creating a distance between us, steeling myself. He turns the page. There I am in all my teenage glory. I think this is the Prom Rebellion- where we ditched prom, and sat around getting drunk. I look back at my sixteen year old self, with heavy eyeliner so thick that I look like a racoon, my hair an odd colour between pink and blonde. I have a bottle of coke in one hand, although it had more vodka in it than coke, and a cigarette in the other. I cringe at the photo. I thought I was so original and cool- but I realise that I was as cliché as the cheerleaders. I don't even know who I was trying to be at that point.

I look over at Derek, worried what his reaction will be, and I see him SMILING. Is he crazy?

"I look like a total freak." I complain.

"No, you don't." Derek insists, that stupid smile still on his face as he flicks through more horrors of my high school antics.

"So the pink hair, nicotine habit and drinking doesn't prove otherwise?" I scoff incredulously.

"Meredith, we all try and find ourselves during high school, and fail. Come on, I was a band geek, for god's sake!"

At any other time, I would have laughed at him for that- cool Derek, the doctor people drool over a band geek. But I'm too caught up in myself right now- I'm too concerned that Derek is saying one thing and thinking another- I know that he has the habit to do that. Sometimes he says things he thinks I want to hear, and then what he's really thinking comes out later, and it seems totally from left field.

He sees my reluctance. "With acne, and afro hair."

"Hmm…" I mumble.

"Look at you!" He says, gesturing to the photo.

"I am! That's what I'm saying…" I splutter.

"I love you..." he looks at me. The thirty-three (nearly thirty four) year old me.

Somehow, just by his look, I know he's not talking about me as I am now, but he's talking about me as that rebellious teenager who thought the world was against her and didn't understand her. He loves the girl who didn't know what she was looking for but searched for it anyway. He leans forward, and kisses me on the lips, leaning his head against mine as he looks back at the photo.

"You haven't changed much, you know." He says quietly.

I know he gets it. That I am tough yet breakable. That I build up this hard exterior but that I'm really very soft inside. He knows I don't think convention is for me. He flicks through the rest of the book, his other hand holding onto me as he laughs at my fashion faux pases. He understands why I'm the type of person to get married on a post it after seeing those pictures. I've still got a little bit of bad ass in me. I still have a streak of pink hair inside my heart. I'm not someone who cares whether it's a done thing. I wanted to get married, to commit, and I did it. It may not have been in a church, or in city hall, and even though at the time I wanted to, the legality of our commitment right now doesn't bother me. Because he loves me. There are so many people who have lavish weddings, and they last five minutes. I'd rather keep my post-it commitment forever than make it official and it last a few months.

Before Derek, I wonder if I was abnormal. Maybe I was a little cold for love, lacking in the sentiment of it. As soon as someone's interest flagged, my feelings went that way too- an element of hold on tightly, let go lightly. Don't make an attachment, don't care. Bye bye. I won't let you hurt me.

Maybe I didn't give those people enough chances.

Maybe I gave Derek too many.

I broke all my rules with him. I betrayed every promise I made to myself since I was sixteen. I was one of those doormat girls who took their guy's bullshit because I loved them. All romance is narcissism, that's something I heard once. Maybe it is. Maybe especially now I have Derek it is. But who cares? When it's with the right person, it doesn't feel ostentatious and self-fulfilling. It feels like you're the only two people in the world who feel that way. Love- maybe it's a chemical thing that our brains make up in a biological way to procreate- we fool ourselves that we have a unique and special connection with someone so we fuck like bunnies and bingo, a kid pops out in nine months time. Maybe my brain is fooling me that this love means forever with Derek. But fuck it, I'm along for the ride.

-X-

I fish my shoes out of my cubby and shrug my coat on. It was dark when I left the house this morning, and now it's dark when I'm going home. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Not really. Not when I don't know any better.

I make my way to Derek's office, walking along the hallways slowly. He said he'd wait for me, that he had paperwork he needed to catch up on. Research grants, conferences, presentations. Since the tumor thing- both of them- our tumor thing and his thing, he's been in demand. I know what that's like all too well. Mom was always gone to Italy or France or somewhere to present something. Once you get into that world, it's hard to get out. She was a chaser. Wanting to find out more, be better, invent a new thing. I understand it better now, I'm a doctor now, I think. It was shitty for me to grow up with her as a mom, and she ruined my childhood, but she made a difference to so many other people's lives. I guess I can live with that.

After all, I didn't end up so fucked up, did I? I have a husband now (ok- not a legal one, but…I was the girl who dyed my hair pink, chain smoked, just packed a bag and went around Europe…) , I have a job that requires responsibility, I have friends…Maybe I should be indebted to my mom, because without her being the way she was, maybe this wouldn't taste as sweet- it would have been something I expected and just fell into rather than earned like I feel I have now.

It's not been easy with Derek. We've had to forgive each other for a lot. I've had to forgive him for Addison, for calling me a whore, for the whole thing where he jerked me around with the 'I don't want to breathe for you—but won't tell me anything' bullshit. I can't even understand the rest up until the candlelight house… I try not to think about it. But I guess it cancels out, that I drowned and never told him anything. I thought I was too fucked up, and it drove him away. But anyway, it's over now, and remarkably, I am truly content, despite that history.

I walk down the hall to his office, and I swear I hear giggling. But maybe I'm just hypoglycaemic…no, there it is again. It's like a child. One of those innocent happy giggles. It makes me smile. I stop infront of his door, and it's coming from inside his office.

I open the door, and I find Derek on the floor with little Tuck, pretending to be some kind of tickle monster. There are toys all over the place, crayons and paper- it's a mess. But seeing Derek smile and Tuck laugh like that- I swear I heard an ovary burst.

Let me just say, I'm not that girl. I want children but I don't want to be just a mommy. I don't want to fuck them up either. But there's something in seeing Derek with a child that turns on a biological switch I have no control over. I love him even more. I've never seen Derek with a kid like this before. They've been patients and there's been a distance he's had to maintain, and we haven't gone to be tortured by his sisters yet. I've not seen this unrestrained Derek with a little person, just having fun. Is this what he was like with his nieces and nephews in New York?

I almost feel guilty I'm keeping him away from being Uncle Derek. Because he's pretty fucking amazing at it.

Derek notices me standing there and has this grin on his face. It's slightly sheepish, maybe a little bit embarrassed. But it's also a 'we could have this' kind of grin. That grin makes me want one even more.

"Hey Tuck. Say hi to Auntie Meredith…" Derek says to the squirming kid in his arms.

"Hi…" Tuck giggles, giving me a slobbery kiss and a little wave.

I just heard my second ovary pop.

"Bailey had an emergency lap chole gone wrong." Derek explains. "I was around, I saw Bailey in a panic trying to get hold of Tucker. So I thought I'd help out and take this little guy."

I sit down on the ground with them, joining in with the tickle fun. This is all new to me. I didn't have siblings, I wasn't surrounded by babies. But seeing Derek with Tuck, makes me think it's doable, and that there's no one I'd rather have a kid with than Derek. I don't think, in this moment there's anywhere else I'd rather be.

Even the pink haired parts of me.

_**If I was 17 I could find it in between  
The cushions of somebody's couch  
I could find it. I could find it  
If I was 17 I could find it in a dream  
A dime a dozen kind of love  
I could find it. I could find it  
But I'm not 17 and I lost it in between  
The birthday cakes and fast mistakes  
That roll on by.**_

_**Ingrid Michaelson- Locked up.**_


	4. Chapter 4

I hate those days when I wake up, and the minute I open your eyes, I know it's gonna be a shit day. Those days when the whole world annoys me, and I wish I could either kill everyone or go to sleep again and wake up to another day. It's those days when people puke on me, or I have to get through a twenty four hour shift with period pains, or my husband doesn't set the alarm and I have to run out of the house half dressed. You can't spread the shitty through a week or a month, it all falls on that one day.

And today is totally one of those days.

It's the day that's set up my bad mood, not the other way round. I could say it's because its my time-of-the-month, but I'm not fourteen anymore and there is no gym class to get out of. I mean, apart from those two days a week I want to rip Derek's head off, I don't believe in that hormonal crap.

At times like this, I realised I fucked things up when I decided it was ok that my husband is also my boss. Sometimes it's hard to keep home issues at home, and work issues at work. When do we make that switch? At the front door of our house or the automatic doors of the hospital? I try to separate the two in my mind. Husband Derek and Boss Derek. I tell husband Derek anything I want, speak to him anyway I want, and I know he'll take it. But Boss Derek still has to be treated with some respect. When is my boss a dick and my husband an ass? He was up and out of the house this morning before me, not that he told me that before, nor did he reset the alarm, hence me getting up 10 minutes after I should have been out of the house.

This means we have to take two cars, even though we finish at the same time. And I have to navigate rush hour traffic. I'm a potty mouth driver. I actually think Derek was scared the first time he got in a car while I was driving. His hand clutched the armrest and his knuckles went white. I just don't see why old ladies need to be out on the road at peak hours. They should make it illegal. I don't see why huge trucks need to turn into roads that are obviously too narrow and block the whole freaking road. George had suggested anger management one time, and ironically, it made me more angry. I miss him. Sometimes, I turn to say something to him, or think about texting him something I know he'd find funny, and it hits me that he's not here anymore. It hurts a bit every time. He never got to get excited with us about the rest of our lives, the big moments and the little ones. Losing him meant more to me than losing my own mother.

Thanks to some reckless driving, I make it to hospital with just enough time to grab good coffee from the nice coffee cart. I throw a few dollar bills at the server, calling back to keep the change- I'm really not going to fall over myself to get back the twelve cents. Twelve cents? Who the hell makes this shit up? I know there's tax that's never a round number, but there must be some math monkey out there that can calculate the price a coffee needs to be including tax so it rounds to a good number. As I climb up the stairs two at a time, I feel my phone buzz in my purse. I fish it out with my one free hand, but in order to twist my arm at that awkward angle and not elbow someone in the eye, I balance myself with my other arm, and some of the scalding hot coffee splashes onto my hand. Obviously I drop the coffee, all over me, my bag and the floor, but it's my phone that I'm more concerned about, that flies out of my hand and right down the stairs with a smash. I peer down the railing to try and see if it survived, and some perky intern bounds up the stairs to give it to me,or…what's left of it. The screen smashed, and it's making a rattling sound. I hope the phone call wasn't important.

I hate when I already start the day behind, and I never catch up. I was late, running into old people and people in wheelchairs, getting myself ravelled in IV lines as I rushed out of the elevator as I tried to get to my residents on time.

"Dr. Grey, nice of you to join us…" Derek gives me a sideways glance as I jog up to the group, wrestling to put my arm through the sleeve of my lab coat.

My mouth opens to shoot a retort back like 'well, set the alarm next time, asshole' but I realise that's overstepping. So I just close it again. He's a dick. "Sorry." I mumble. I want to ask him why he didn't even try to wake me up and tell me he was going in early, and at least let me decide if I want to go in alone, or why he didn't leave me a note. I want to know if it was him calling me before the phone got killed, and what he wanted to know. Is that what he's pissed about? I can still smell that bitter stench of cold, stale coffee on my skin, and I'm thinking when exactly I can get a new phone…

Obviously this distracts me, and I'm flustered for the whole round, which Derek doesn't seem to notice or care about. He's charming to the patients who swoon over the handsome doctor with shiny hair and the great blue eyes, and he walks around like he owns the place. He flounces off leaving us with a list of scutty things to do. Lumbar punctures, CT scans, no whiff of an OR today because Dearest Husband is doing post-op consults and some other attending is on OR time, and I'm not assigned.

The day gets shittier.

Some asshole pushes in front of me in the lunch line and takes the last edible sandwich in the fridge, I grit my teeth, and pick a horrible looking salad. I open the lid and pour the dressing all over it to make it at least taste like something, and then I'm paged to a 911. I reluctantly put the lid back on my salad that already looked warm and go back to the neuro floor.I seem to have the most incompetent interns with me today. They can't get easy lines in, they couldn't do the lumbar punctures, and one of the patients was seizing all over the place and instead of the list becoming smaller, more shit was getting added on it.

By the time the day ends, I feel like crawling out of that fucking hospital. I never want to go back to that godforsaken hell hole ever again.

"Do you want to go to Joe's?" I ask Cristina, who's taking off her scrub top.

"Are you kidding me? I'm staying late. Teddy's CT surgeon on call, which means I'll get to do something kick ass, I'm just changing my top so I don't stink, and she thinks I'm here for the next shift." And with that, she pushes me off the bench and lies on it, stretching her muscles. I don't even bother to wait to tell Derek where I'm going, even though I know that we will probably leave within five minutes of each other. I just want a drink, and to go to bed, and wake up and find that today is yesterday and tomorrow is today. You know, draw a line under the day's worth of crap.

I walk over the road to Joe's and notice that my regular bar stool is vacant, the first good thing that happened all day. Joe looks at me, and his hand goes straight for the tequila. Do I really look that bad? I take the shot gratefully, and swallow it with a wince. It's smoky and burns. It takes me back to those days where I spent most of the weekend in bars. If I still smoked and had a cigarette to hand, I totally would smoke it right now. It's that temptation, that hit of nicotine with the taste of tequila that's addictive. I never understood those people who drink cocktails. They say it's to hide the taste of alcohol, but that's the whole point of drinking. If you don't cringe as it burns your throat then it takes the fun away from the alcoholic buzz. Burn and high. Burn and high. For a long time, that was how I got through shitty days like this. And before I knew it, the burn and the high melted into one state that invariably ended up with me taking some random guy home.

"Haven't see you around for a while, Meredith…" Joe says, pouring me another.

"Hmm. I was growing a liver for the dad I don't like so the illusion my sister has of him doesn't shatter." I say, licking my lips in preparation for the next shot.

I don't know when she became my sister, and I don't know why. She's actually kind of annoying with her optimism and perky perkiness and making Mark follow her around like a puppy dog. But I suppose I did it for her when she asked me anyway, more fool me. I down the second shot, and that long awaited something hits. It takes the edge off my day.

I can feel Derek shuffle up beside me. "What are you doing?" He asks as he orders me a margarita. He must think that shot was my first. Dumbass.

"I'm planning to get drunk…" I say, slumping on the stool slightly, not looking at him.

I know he's going to be husband Derek, and act all concerned. And that's where the old me comes out of the shadows, wondering if it was easier when we skipped all the conversation about feelings and got straight to the sex. "Are you even allowed to be drinking yet?" he asks me, still looking at me. I know he's noticed the coffee stain on my top and jeans.

"Bailey gave me a clean bill of health." I answer, moving to a booth, knowing he'll follow. His shoulder touches mine and my thigh rubs along his as he shuffles in the booth next to me.

"I've been trying to call you…" He said, sipping his scotch.

"Phone broke." I say, finally looking at him. He's looks at me, sceptically. I take the bits of what's left of it and put it on the table.

I know he wants to ask me why I'm in a bad mood other than the phone, and in some ways I want to yell it's all his fault because if he woke me up, or reset the alarm, the day wouldn't have started of badly, and I wouldn't have made it worse for myself. Maybe if I scream at him, I'd feel better. But something stops me from starting to yell. Because I know that I'll get mid rant and I'll suddenly realise none of it matters anymore. What matters is that he's there beside me, and just letting me decide whether I want to shout at him or not. And maybe that's all I need.

"It's just been a bad day." I sigh, leaning my head against his shoulder as I swirl the umbrella in the glass.

His arm creeps around me, and his silence comforts me. It's like he understands, and will let me just try and drink the bad mood away. He knows what I need. "I'll order some more drinks, and get a menu." He says, kissing me.

I really love him for that. He lets me be. He knows when to push and when not to. We have gotten to that comfortable stage now, where we don't need to verbalise every tiny little thought we have and that's ok. He knows I'm mad at him because of the alarm thing, and the asshole boss thing, and that's what the drinks and food is for.

-X-

I 've missed this stage of drunken-ness, when your brain's all fuzzy and you don't quite feel sober, but you still know what you're doing. That wall of inhibitions falls and you're just you. Derek plied me with drinks, and now we're in a cab home. We're squashed in the back seat, and Derek's arm is around my waist, his fingers playing at the waistband of my jeans. He's as drunk as I am, and I know he's squirmy because he knows what's coming when we get home. Him.

"Come on, Derek!" I shout impatiently while the cab driver gives him change. Change is so overrated. I'm sure this is the second time I've thought that today, where they should just round everything up. Who the fuck cares about coins?

He jumps up the steps, and I've already opened the door. He smiles at me, and we've not even gotten over the threshold before his lips are on my neck, making me giggle. My back is against the wall, and he looks at me, with those blue eyes, and I see that same flicker in them I saw the first night we were together. That night where I didn't know him, and he didn't know me, and it didn't even matter because for that time, we were enough for each other. Nothing else mattered but scratching each other's itch.

I resent that with Derek, right from the beginning, sex was different. I wish it had been the same as all the other meaningless men, because I wouldn't have kept coming back to him. It was all about him. He was the only one I couldn't get enough of, and got lost in. I revelled in the way he smelled, of some woody scent, the way he felt on my skin, warming and electrifying, the taste of scotch on his tongue. Sometimes, I think I imagine that connection with Derek, that spark I felt that first night. Like my memory purposely makes it seem better than it was, because he's my husband now, and the only one forever. All I want him to do is just stop all this foreplay crap and just get down to business, because no one else has ever made me feel like Derek makes me feel when we have sex, ever. But now I know what I was feeling that night was truth. I know our sexual chemistry plugs all the miscommunication in our relationship- it's the goof off. It keeps solving the problem, but doesn't stop it from happening again. That's all us.

For me, it had always been the biological need. Pick a guy,do it, kick him out. With Derek, sure, he satisfies the biological need really well, but it's also deeper than that. It's almost spiritual, like when I'm with him I realise why all those other men meant nothing, and that maybe there is only one person out there who is meant for you. It's the memory of those moments that kept me going for a long time. When he was with Rose and I was working myself out, there's this moment of clarity. I remembered all the times Derek used the goof off and it got rid of that stain, but I still made them. The sex, that desperate scrabbling for those few moments where nothing else mattered were like gems dotting the cord of our moribund relationship.

We make it to the bedroom. Shoes at the bottom of the stairs, socks somewhere on the stairs, my sweater thrown onto a picture frame on the side table we knocked into in the hallway upstairs. We fall onto the bed, a mass of limbs as Derek's hands roam everywhere. The light from the hallway streams through the open door, and I can see everything.

"God, I love you." He groans. I know he's saying it at me, rather than to me. It's his penis doing the talking. I've had a few one night stands who've said it before. I know it's not about loving me, but about loving what they're feeling- and I'm not talking about emotionally-they use the love as a declaration of their arousal. They love what I'm doing to them, not me, Meredith Grey. I don't mind so much, not with Derek anyway. It's a wonderfully joyous feeling, revelling in his body, feeling good for sharing mine with him- I love the way he makes me feel too. I can't stop touching him, nibbling him, wanting him. He feels like someone I've been with forever.

You can't get that feeling with just anyone. I've only felt maybe a fraction of what I feel with Derek with only a handful of people. I don't know if the great sex makes the connection stronger, or if the connection makes the sex better. Maybe it's a bit of both. We started with the sex, so I'm more inclined to go with the former. But even without the sex, when he left me for the wife, that crackle of energy we felt for each other was still there. It's inexplicable, the pain I felt not being able to touch him, taste him, make him feel how he made me feel. Sometimes, I'm so caught up in being angry, I forget that he makes me happy.

For some inexplicable reason we've stuck. None of the other one night stands became one of the most important people in my life. I've not had any role model for commitment, and I'm muddling along anyway. I know that if I had complained to him at Joe's earlier, he would have taken it, because it's me. I haven't had that before, from anyone, and for a long time, that scared me. I thought relationships with men were better when they were fleeting, like the one night stand who never comes back after daylight breaks. But now I know. Anything that I lost wasn't worth keeping. Thankfully, I didn't lose Derek.

_**[b][i]Your words are inked on my skin  
The marks of incredible love**_

Incredible love, you fill me  
Incredible love, you spill me  
Incredible love, you kill me  
Incredible love[/i]

_**Ingrid Michaelson-Incredible love.[/b]**_


	5. Chapter 5

I took two steps into the kitchen this morning, Derek took one look at me, and told me to go straight back to bed. "I'm fine, Derek…" I insisted, feeling his hand stick to my shirt as the sweat seeped through with the contact.

"Meredith, I don't need a thermometer to tell me you're running a fever. Go back to bed." He said back in an equally insistent tone.

Ok, so I felt like I was one of the living dead, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I was actually grateful that he had his arm around me, or I might have collapsed halfway on the stairs –again, I wasn't going to tell him that. "Cristina went to work once when she was running a 102 degree fever…" I argue feebly as he pulls back the covers and guides me into the bed.

"Cristina is…" He paused trying to find an adjective. "Cristina." He gave up. "I'm telling you…you're not going into work. Not only is it stupid for your recovery, you're an infective sponge right now."

"Wow. Infective sponge. And they say romance is dead…" I laugh, but end up choking on a cough.

"I'll tell people you're not coming in." He said, feeling my forehead, my hairline soaked with sweat. "Yeah, you're definitely not coming in." He blew me a kiss, because he didn't want the infection, and walked out of the door.

I wonder exactly how terrible I look. My throat began to get sore at lunchtime yesterday, but I was willing myself not to get sick. So much for power of the mind. Once I'm in bed, and shivering because of the fever, I'm grateful Derek won this argument and made me stay home. There is no way in hell I'd have made it through the day at work. I feel like all the energy has been sapped from my body and a train has hit me at 100 miles an hour. There isn't one muscle in my body that doesn't hurt. I make it to the bathroom, opening the cabinet to make take some meds, so I can drug myself up and knock myself out. I take a glance of myself in the mirror. Right now, my colour really does fit my name- Grey. I look terrible, and feel terrible. I swallow the pills and walk downstairs to the couch, planning to watch crappy TV and sleep.

No sooner do I make it down there, my cell buzzes.

"Shepherd's got you owned." Cristina says.

I roll my eyes. "It's professional weakness, right?" I say, blowing my nose.

"Being sick or being post-it noted?"

She refuses to call it a marriage. I guess I understand why. She was willing to do the whole white dress and tux thing, that's what she thinks a wedding is. And Burke just walked away. And she wonders why in the end, I think marriage doesn't matter. My mom still cheated, Addison still cheated on Derek, George still cheated on Callie, Izzie still betrayed Alex. Wow, I know a lot of people who screwed up their marriages. I'm happy with this arrangement. We are together because we want to be, we're not obligated by a piece of paper. I don't have first hand examples of a single marriage that wasn't fucked up. Maybe I should be friends with less dysfunctional people.

"Shepherd warned me not to encourage you to come in to work today. So I am actively not encouraging you to come in, even though the board is the board we've had in months." She goads me.

"Couldn't you be a good friend and bring me soup or something instead of telling me what I'm missing?" I sigh exasperatedly.

"Face it,Mer, you'd rather me tell you about the surgeries than bring you soup…" Cristina says confidently.

The sad truth is, she's right. I'd rather be kept in the loop of what's going on at work, and live vicariously through her, than be nursed back to health with affection and chicken soup. I didn't have a loving mother who fed me soup and put cold compresses to my head. She didn't even really know when I was sick, I dealt with it all myself. It actually feels weird that Derek even noticed I was sick, and cared enough to tell me to stay home. Before, I would have dragged my ass to work, felt like I was dying, and felt worse for spending over eighteen hours at the hospital.

My phone buzzes again. It's Derek. "How are you feeling?" He asks me, his voice soft and full of concern.

"I'm waiting for the meds to kick in. I'm fine, really." I don't know how to milk this illness thing.

"I'll come home during lunch, bring you some soup from that deli you like downtown…"

"That's nice, but I'm not sure I'll be able to taste anything. And hopefully I'll be sleeping."

"Just let me look after you."

"I'm sure we have some soup in a can in one of the cupboards in the kitchen…"

Derek laughs at me. "Soup in a can isn't the same." He knows I'm about to protest, and I'm sure he's formulating his comeback in his mind, but I can hear muffled noises in the background. "Hey, I've got to go. See you soon. Love you." He says hurriedly.

My thoughts go back to what I was thinking about before Derek called me, about what I have with Derek. Honestly, before Derek, I thought I just wasn't cut out for love. I wasn't actively seeking it. I didn't have those dreams of a husband, kids and a dog. It wasn't a goal. My goal was to be a doctor, a surgeon. That was what I could depend on, be in full control of. But once you reach that goal, what's left for me? What new goal do I find that I can feel in control of? I never thought I'd be able to depend on anything I felt I had no control over- like my relationship with Derek. I really do feel as if I was swept up and away in it, like the best I could do is just surf the wave and not drown- although I ended up drowning literally and figuratively. I didn't expect it, I didn't want it, I didn't see it either.

I see people whose temporary jobs somehow become permanent ones, and people who get married because it's the next step, or they think that's what they ought to do after dating for a couple of years. But then you can find yourself in situations you didn't even want to be in, and by then it's too late- you have children because everyone expects it, and you find yourself pregnant with your first child before you've even thought about what it means.

I crave any control I can get. Because I feel so out of control so much of the time. That why I chose surgery. Because for a lot of the time, the surgeon god complex and unyielding arrogance tricks my mind into thinking I'm in control. If I clip the artery, the patient will bleed to death, or if I cut the wrong nerve a patient can be paralysed. But then there's moments, especially in surgery, where I realise I have absolutely no control at all. Some call it the path of destiny, some call it the roulette wheel of luck. I don't know what it is.

Too often, it's being caught up in everything that's the problem. The expectations are too high to ever reach them. Really, my relationship with Derek is nobody else's business but mine and Derek's. I know that's simplifying it, and we don't live in a closed society like that. But I don't feel like suffocating myself with hairspray and getting married in a church would change how I feel about Derek. It just makes the commitment I made to him more socially acceptable. I've never been one to conform to that. For people who want to do it, to whom it brings comfort, that's good for them, but it didn't matter to me.

And, I know Derek's the marrying kind. He still believes in that forever even though his marriage to Addison broke up. And yet, he knew I wasn't. I'm not going to cheat on him just because we haven't had a legal wedding. I would have given that to him, but I think he knew that I'd be doing it just for him. I know people think I sound selfish, but here's the thing- I've seen the bad side of it all. The resentment, the 'staying together for the children', that kind of strangling bond that marriage certificate holds. It stopped Richard Webber from being with my mom, it stopped Derek from choosing me, people stay in painful marriages for too long because of the paper. Is it worth it? You couple off, you have babies, and take out mortgages together, and think you have a white picket fenced life, and really, underneath that façade, it's all falling apart, and hate bubbles under the surface. Twenty years later the marriages –sometimes not even the first ones- are falling apart or you're single again, your kids hate you and do whatever they can to stay away from you. Where does that leave you? Why, despite that terrible track record does the next generation think it would work for them?

Why do I think it will work for me, when it didn't work for my mom?

The truth is, I'm going into this blind. I am hoping that my formula works. It's hard to trust Derek to uphold his side of it all. I've seen the other person give up too often, sometimes, I was that other person. I don't have a crystal ball, I don't know if I will be celebrating my anniversary in twenty years' time, or if I will be alone again. But at least I know I can manage on my own, and it won't be a steep learning curve.

That's my last thoughts on the matter, as my feverish delirium succumbs to the meds I had taken.

-X-

When Derek comes home, I'm all bundled up on the couch, watching one of Izzie's chick flick DVDs with a cup of herbal tea in my hands. I look at him standing in the hallway, just looking at me, with a smile on his face. He drops his bag on the floor, takes his shoes off, and joins me on the couch.

"Thanks for the soup. You should have woken me up when you came home." I say to him. Sniffling into the hundredth Kleenex I've used today.

"You were out for the count." He laughs. "Even an earthquake wouldn't have woken you up." He kisses me on the cheek, but I pull away.

"You'll get sick…stay away." I stick my hand out to stop him from kissing me again.

"It'll be worth it."

"It really wouldn't." I cough. "This thing is awful."

I lay my head on his chest anyway, breathing noisily through my mouth. I think about what I was thinking this afternoon, about marriage and what we have, and whether any of it matters. I have this question in my head that's been niggling me ever since we did the post-it thing, and maybe because I'm feeling vulnerable because I'm sick, I ask him. "Do you want to get married for real?"

I can feel him not breathe for a moment. The rhythmic in-out rise and fall in his chest has stopped. "Maybe not the Izzie version of a wedding, but you know, the certificate in city hall part of it. Because- I know you believe in marriage, and I don't want you to think I can't give it to you- I can. I mean every marriage is different, right? It doesn't have to end like my mom and dad's…"

He doesn't answer straight away. He thinks for a moment. "Are you happy?" He asks me. It's asked confidently, as if he knows the answer.

"Well yeah, but…"

"Yes, I wanted to be married to you. I wanted something that means forever with you. And I have it. You're right, every couple is different. We love each other, we're committed to each other, that's a marriage. It's not a legal one, it's not a recognised one, but that's ok with me. Other people want that legality. So did I. But you know what? People do what they want anyway. They cheat if they want to, they lie. The legality makes no difference whether you break up or not. That's the emotionally tough part. I'm not bothered about the paper element of it. I wanted the commitment and the romantic gesture. And we did that."

I guess his answer put an end to my insecurity that my jittery need for unconventional relationships was forcing him to do something he didn't want to do. If I think about what I wanted when I told him I wanted to get married at city hall, I wanted those same things. To tell him I'd try my hardest to love him forever.

Now I realise, that the people I admire and try to be are at two ends of a continuum. There are people who either choose to pack in as much as possible into their lives, because we don't know how long we're going to be on this earth, and truly 'carpe diem'-ing means you don't give a fuck about the consequences, and there are those who have the motto of 'Live forever or die trying' because again, at least they don't have regrets. They've looked into the abyss, acknowledged their fear of the unknown, and are still doing what they can.

Anything is just average- middle America, middle-of-the-road. It's all or nothing. I'm supposed to be a passionate force of nature. That's fine for others, but I think 'when you were six years old, what did you want to be when you grew up?' Ok, so I might not be a world class surgeon yet, and Derek – or the concept of someone like him- might never have been in the plans, but I don't feel as if loving him has clipped my wings. It's made me more bold. It's made me want to be better, because he provides me a strong emotional base, which is something that was totally alien to me. Someone loves me for just being me? Not because he has to, but because he chooses to. Hell yeah, that gives me a lot of confidence.

We sit there, on the couch amidst tissues and empty mugs and blankets, the sound of the TV filling the silence between us. "I love you." He says softly, his hand rubbing my arm.

I pull myself up to look at him, wondering what made him say that. I am lying on the couch, still in my nasty pajamas, I dread to think what my hair looks like, my head feels like it's a watermelon about to explode, and he's telling me he loves me? What does he want? What did he do. I know sometimes he can be a sentimental fool, but he's also a man. Men don't just say it. Maybe he said it to plug the flow of my insecurities.I look at him- into his eyes, and just see a contentedness. There's not actually a reason why he said it.

He shrugs. "Just because."

Is he reading my mind? He said it as if he can't not say it. I don't know how to deal with this kind of love. Of all the different kinds of 'I love you's, it feels as if it's this 'just because' kind of love is the one that truly counts. When I think about it, there's lots of things I love about Derek, but really, when it boils down to it, there are really the two types of love. There's the solid and enduring love, like the ground beneath your feet. That's the 'I love you even when you look like shit' love. Then there's the other kind, it's like a hurricane, powerful and fierce. It might only happen once but it leaves a footprint on your heart. That's the 'I have to have you now' love. I don't know which one is the best, which one matters more. They both do.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

_**I love you more than I could ever promise.  
And you take me the way I am.**_

_**Ingrid Michaelson- The way I am.**_


End file.
